Thorns
by Linz the Reader
Summary: Power, the goal and the motif. Power blotted out an entire world with a single word. What will happen when an evil from Jadis's past comes to take the land she never could conquer? All the while, another memory is fighting with the Pevensies to keep it.
1. Prologue

**I HAVE HAD A REVELATION. Oh um *clears throat and straightens imaginary tie*, I mean hi hello buenos dios bonjour, I have had a revelation. No, I didn't have a dream about white men raining down on my camp like grasshoppers (you know Sitting Bull the Battle of Little Bighorn). I just re-read _The White Lily_ and honestly I REALLY thought it was very mediocre (I'd rather it be absolute crap than mediocre) and I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while (more like living in it and consuming my daydreams) so I thought why not give it a shot. I may or may not discontinue _The White Lily._ I'm kinda teeter-tottering right now, but an anvil just plunked onto the end that has continue written in sharpie on it so I'm serioudly considering discontinuing it. So you know if you wasted your time clicking on this then you might as well read it, and if you spent a whole sixty seconds reading it why not review it. Reviews are especially important for this one because I need to know rather or not anyone wants to see where this goes.**

**---some thoughts from the mind of....**

**-----(*JAWS theme plays*) xXLindseyXx (it's easier than my usual signature)**

**Prologue**

**Beginning at Twilight**

An infant lay squalling on a thin sheet of newly frozen ice. As twilight closed in, the frigid air grew sharper, and her chances of survival dwindled until only a miracle was left to hope for. Her tiny grey eyes cringed into slits of deep confused fear. The wool blanket swaddling her plump little form did little to shield her from the stinging cold. Inside of her small world, she couldn't find an answer as to why she was here. All she knew was that she was scared and freezing.

What she wasn't aware of was that a pair of copper eyes had been watching her from the snow-flecked forest. The eyes emerged, and the twilight revealed a solemn regal lion. His great golden paws took steady even steps toward the ice. Without hesitation, the lion put all of his weight on the ice. The thin sheet confidently held the new weight with only a crack forming here and there. As he got closer, the cracks became wider until shards began sprouting up. One made a small incision in the delicate skin of the baby's back.

"Peace, Child." the Lion's rumbling voice commanded. The infant immediately stopped crying at the sound of this fascinating new creature. Her terrified miniature orbs stared back into the warmth of his copper eyes. He gravely pricked his left paw on a sharp edge of ice. She watched the thick crimson drop trickle down the floe, not sure what to think of it. Warm, she was warm. The infant realized that the Lion was breathing soft gentle breaths over her face. She began to slowly fade until she was no longer visible.

"She shall return." the Great Cat proclaimed, staring intently at the piece of sinking ice where the small girl had once laid.


	2. Note or Short Story

**yes I know there is a rule against posting chapters that are solely author's notes**

**yes I also know that this is an author's note**

**but I wanted to say somethign without having to P.M everyone who has ever read this story so here it goes:**

**Thorns is under construction**

**I promise when it's back in a couple of weeks (which will also be when school's out so updates will hopefully be coming like clockwork)**

**Jo will still be Jo, toned down granted, but she will still be Jo just a less urmm.. of a stereotypical angsty character almost emo I guess**

**I am currently performing open heart surgery on the plot**

**got any questions? message me I promise I won't bite and one last very important thing**

**I AM IN THIS FOR THE LONG HAUL! THORNS WILL _NOT_ COME TO THE SAME FATE THAT WAS BESTOWED UPON MY FIRST FIC**

**P.S to address the whole issue of *takes up a whiny five-year-old-voice* You're breaking the rooles! let's just say that this is a story about how one author isn't crapping out on her readers and is instead, improving the story the main characters are me, myself, Jo's voice in my head, and who ever you flipping feel like throwing into the mix**


	3. The Trouble With Strangers

**Bonjour, my splendid readers! See no crapping out. Here's the first rewrite and not to toot my own horn or anything, but I think this is _much_ better than the first chapters. A bit of sad news though, my beta has recently (by recently I mean last night) informed me that her schedule will no longer allow her to be able to beta for me. Eh, oh well. Any who, please review! You all have been so wonderful for favoriting this and putting it on your alert list and reviewing it. Seriously thanks! Blah blah blah, I'm gonna shut up now and let you get on with the reading.**

**---watch out for anyone coughing becuase you get to close and BAM next thing you know you're dying from Swine Flu a warning from...**

**-------*Lindsey* **

**disclaimer: I ain't making one single red cent off this so please I beg of you NO LAWSUITS! I know it's so tempting these days with the state of the U.S legal system but please don't be a moron**

Chapter 1:

The Trouble with Strangers

Come on, Marjorie! You're going to have to be more balanced if you ever want to land a proper fouetté, I think to myself, desperately trying to keep my right leg straight and the tip of my pointe shoe continuously pushing off the attic floorboards. I can almost hear my ballets instructor's voice ringing through my ears in her thick French accent.

"Marjaeree," despite the fact that she's been "molding" me as she calls it for the last six years, Ms. Elle still hasn't grasped the correct pronunciation of my name, "the Royal Ballet would never stand for your atrocious posture, and for God's sake, will you please wipe that dreadful scowl off your face."

Maybe somewhere under her heavy makeup, incessant nagging, and obsession with the floors of her London dance studio, she might possibly mean well. Even though it means having to spend three excruciating hours five times a week with that woman, I still religiously practice my beloved ballet.

I'm not really sure when or how I began loving ballet. I think it was somewhere around the time I started being bullied at school. This was ironically around the same time that the principal and I became frequent acquaintances.

It's not like I wasn't totally unprovoked to punch Sally Hart in her, and I mean this with the heaviest sarcasm possible, "precious little flower of a nose". Those were Flohart's words not mine. That snotty little airhead thinks she's all high and mighty with her gaggle of mindless goslings. It shouldn't concern her whether or not I sit around the "right people", or whether I have an escort for the formal, or whether or not I move out of her seat that supposedly has her name written on it. I have friends. Not very close friends, but I have friends. Maybe, not friends as much as friendly people, friendly people who are just as bad in arithmetic and chemistry as I am.

The count of tutor's whom Mother and Father have hired over the years is up to seven, as of May. Just as I'd predicted, each elbow-patched suit wearing tutor after another have proclaimed that I am absolutely hopeless(it is quite amusing how they say it as if I'm some ancient unsolvable arithmetic problem). Maybe I wouldn't be so "absolutely hopeless" if they wouldn't be so bloody boring and lay off the mumbling to themselves. I'm not deaf, and I honestly couldn't care less about what your wife is cooking for dinner, nor do I about what time she's serving it. At least the tutoring can get me away from my parents for another hour.

It seems as though their favorite hobby is squabbling. The pointlessness of their fights is the worst. Does Mother honestly care if father invited Uncle Gordon over for dinner a day earlier than she said she would? Why should Father give a damn (Mother would have my head if I said that in front of her) if she organized the catastrophic mess that he calls his study. I've gone to them and tried to talk about it (isn't that what normal children do with their parents), but they just say,

"Jo sweetie, we're just having a little spat. It won't last more than a day."

They've been doing it for almost four years now! I think the lasting no more than a day boat sailed off a little while ago. Their issues, and the war, and their mindset that maybe sending me off to the middle of nowhere will straighten out my "behavioral issues", are what led to my little holiday. I call it that because it's several glorious months away from school, tutors, my parents' bickering, and Ms. Elle (though her voice is forever engraved into my brain).

Grandfather Kirke is a rather pleasant fellow after all. He seems a bit odd sometimes, but he generally leaves me to myself, and that's all I ask. I've even been able to sand down a portion of the attic floor into a decent dance floor. It might even pass inspection by Ms. Elle. Scratch that, she'd probably criticize it and then tell it the Royal Ballet would be appalled by it. I think it's quite a charming little attic actually….

"Blasted splinter!" I scolded the splinter that had caused me to loose balance and crash onto the not so forgiving floor. Just as I was picking my sore body of the floor, (tights and a leotard aren't exactly the best padding) I heard a familiar voice hollering my name from downstairs.

"Marjorie!" Macready called. If the woman wasn't so terribly frightening I would have made some snide comment about how she had just broken her own rule of no yelling.

I quickly stripped off the laces of my pointe shoes, and switched them out with a pair of ballet slippers. I jogged down flight after flight of stairs until I came to the landing where Macready and…hullo…four children were standing. Grandfather had told me that he was taking in some evacuees, but this was definitely sooner than I had expected. All four of the children are staring at me, just as I'm staring at them. Why are they staring at me? Well, let's see maybe it has to do with the fact that I'm sweating bullets and I'm in full, rather exposing ballet attire. These sorts of things rarely happen to anyone else, but here I am Jo Collins making a right fool out of herself.

"Yes, ma'am," I turned to Macready with a mock salute. I came very close to giving her a salute similar to Hitler's. Judging by her resulting glare that screamed, "You're seriously pushing it kid", she probably didn't take that as a joke. At least it got a snicker out of the black-haired boy.

"Marjorie, show the Pevensies to their rooms. I trust you know where they are." Macready more so commanded than asked. Of course, I knew which of the forty something rooms in this gigantic house they were supposed to be staying in. Thankfully, there was some truth in my sarcasm because I knew that the girls would be staying in my room and—what my room. Oh joy, small talk, there is absolutely nothing I would like to do more than to make awkward small talk with complete strangers.

"Yes ma'am," I replied. I began to climb the stairs; the four children were following. I wanted to get back rid of them as soon as possible, which is why I'm practically jogging up the stairs and down the hallway. They were silent for the full sixty seconds. I just wished they would've stayed that way. Of course, someone had to break the silence.

"I'm Susan Pevensie." the girl with dark hair and blue eyes introduced herself. I reluctantly shook her extended hand and gave a stiff smile.

"Jo Collins," I flatly returned. Our hands broke away, and another was extended. This time it was a larger hand.

"Peter," the blonde boy introduced himself, with a kind smile. I briefly shook his hand, keeping my forced smile. This same rather ritual was carried out with the other two, Edmund and Lucy in the same wooden manner before we filtered into our bedrooms.

"So are you an evacuee?" Susan asked me as I rummaged through my trunk for a suitable blouse. The small talk has begun.

"You could say that, but I'm actually the professor's granddaughter." I replied, snatching my other stocking out of the trunk.

"Where're you from?" Susan asked, her fingers playing with the crimson fabric of the bedspread.

"Fulham," is the only answer I offered. I'm not particularly interested in playing twenty questions at the moment. Now where is that blasted shoe?

"That's not very far from Finchley." she continued to muse. Ah ha! I have found the strayed shoe. Now if I could only remember what I did with its mate. "We're form Finchley."

"Does my other shoe happen to be in Finchley?" I pulled my head out of the depths of my trunk. This sort of thing happens to be far more frequently then I'd like. It's typically followed by Mother finding them and a lecture that goes something like,

"Marjorie, dear, if your head wasn't screwed tight on your shoulders you would've gone and lost that too by now." she says. "I say, you're almost as bad as your father." she says, then she goes off to find Father and give him a similar lecture about his spectacles. He's always misplacing them, and it makes it quite hard to read the game plan for the football team he coaches.

"Actually, it's right over…here." Susan said, handing me the lost shoe. She wore a pleasant smile; not too cheery, but not dry.

"Thanks," with that I walked out of the room with my bundle of clothing and _both _shoes.

Remembering where I put things, small talk, and strangers really aren't my specialty,

but I thought I could pull off the whole walking thing. That is until I ran into Peter in the hallway. There goes my shoes, tumbling off the bundle of clothes, and there goes my skirt and blouse, sailing to the ground.

"Sorry," he apologized, crouching down and reaching for one of my shoes. Honestly, these shoes are far more trouble than they're worth. Oh no, my skirt! The packet is practically falling out of my skirt!

"I've got it," I snapped, quickly throwing my hand over the glistening plastic of the exposed package. Thank God, I don't think he saw it.

"Again, sorry," he apologized _again, _adding a little edge_._ Oh great, now he's suspicious. I gathered up my clothes, hiding the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of my skirt. It might seem a bit odd to hide a pack of cigarettes in your clothes, but it's not like anyone will go through my trunk. Granted, it does bring up occasional situations like this.

I changed in the bathroom down the hall, and came out leotard free, with the cigarettes safely tucked inside my pocket. I climbed the stairs, ending in another long hallway, and traipsed into the library. The library was filled with complicated globes, accounts of Grandfather's trips to Africa and Asia, gigantic books written in a variety of languages on even more subjects, and other things of the sort. Even the furniture seemed to look old and knowledgeable as if it had read all of the books and knew of every place detailed on the globes and maps.

There lay the book I had been struggling to finish the night before, resting idly on the window seat. I've found that while I'm trying to read through a particular part in a particularly boring book, I tend to find my thoughts particularly interesting, and I occasionally tend to get lost in them. A lack of sleep might have also caused my exceptionally small attention span last night.

I snatched up the lonely novel and slumped onto the cushions framing the bay window. I'm not sure how long I stayed like that. I managed to hold a good reading mood. To my annoyance, I heard Ivy ringing the lunch bell from the dining room. Now that I think about it, I am rather starved, and a drink or two wouldn't hurt either. I quickly dog-ear the page I'm on, and jog down the stairs. Two flights of stairs to be exact.

"Hello, Jo," the smallest girl chirped as I entered the dining room. What was her name? Ah yes, I remember it now. It was Lily wasn't it. Oh dear, no no no, it must have been Lisa. Lucy yes, it was most definitely Lucy.

"Hello," I returned in an airy, uninterested voice. Now I've come to the next obstacle of living with strangers. Where should I sit? I don't know any of them. Just pick any old chair, Jo. You can't just stand here like an idiot. I decided to take the seat beside the other boy his name was…Edmund. I noticed when I sat down beside him he looked at me a bit oddly, but luckily, his sulking expression returned.

"Why don't you say grace, Peter," Susan suggested to her old brother at her side. He smiled in agreement and took Susan and Lucy's hands in his.

Edmund and I looked at each other as if to say, "Do we really have to?". Edmund got a chastising glance across the table from Peter, and reluctantly placed his hand in mine. If the last four hours or so weren't awkward this definitely made up for it.

The only parts of Peter's prayer I caught were dear God and amen. I had seen children do something similar to this at school while we were in the cafeteria, but I never did it myself. The Collins are not a particularly religious clan. The extent of our trips to a church end at a yearly appearance on Christmas Eve. I've heard of all the basic stuff like Jesus being born in a manger, God creating the world, and all that jaw, but I myself never really thought any of it to be anymore than just some fuzzy touchy-feely fairytale. Sure, the idea of eternal life sounds all warm and jolly, but basing your entire life on serving another sounds a lot like slavery to me.

Grandfather's maids, Margaret and Ivy brought out the sandwiches. Bread, lettuce, tomatoes, and all of the other vegetables that no one likes very much to eat were about the only things that hadn't been rationed so far. Thus, the sandwiches were dreadfully healthy, consisting of ham, lettuce, and tomatoes. Of course, there's always the odd potato obsession that England seems to be dealing with at the moment, seeing as they're one of the few vegetables that are able to thrive here. Because of this we had some variety of soup with boiled potato chunks floating on the surface.

The meal was generally pleasant. The sandwiches tasted a lot better than they looked, the soup tasted a lot less like marsh water than I had predicted, but the Pevensies seemed intent on making me feel included.

"How long have you been dancing? You must be awfully good by now," Lucy asked. To this I replied,

"Six years," This would contradict the only compliment Ms. Elle ever offered me which was something about how well I've progressed and another bit about how I'm not as hopeless as some of the other urchins she teaches. To this Susan asked,

"Do you plan to be a professional, or are you more it for the fun?" To me this sounded a bit of a stupid question, being that I've been pointing my toes and spraining my ankles for six bloody years! I was in it for a get away and a dream.

"Royal Ballet actually," this conversation went on until I mentioned my father's occupation, and Peter took the chance to discuss football. I pulled out of the conversation because frankly, I'm sick of hearing about balls and kicks and positions. Father certainly does enjoy his job.

After lunch, I decided to try to get a bit more practice in and a smoke. I jogged up the attic stairs in my leotard and tights with my cigarettes hidden in the toes of my pointe shoes lest I should run into anyone on the stairs. This precaution was really very useless seeing as what happened in the attic.

I casually strolled over the attic threshold, took the cigarettes from the shoes, and set my pointe shoes down on a one-legged rocking chair as I made my way to the window. I plucked out a cigarette and seized a match from a box that I kept on the glass top of an old coffee table. Just as I struck the tip against the back of the box, someone whom I had no idea had been watching my routine spoke from the window.

"Oh sorry, I didn't know you'd be coming up here," came Edmund's voice from the window. If he hadn't seen me in my leotard before our unexpected meeting would've been even more uncomfortable. This time, I was only holding a cigarette in my right hand and a lit match in the other. Yep, this is definitely still uncomfortable.

"Funny, I didn't expect you to be up here either." I decided to light the cigarette anyway. Why waste a perfectly good match?

"Haven't you're parents found," he began to ask, looking at me with a visibly shocked face.

"Nope," I cut him off, exhaling a wispy cloud of dark smoke.

"So…this is where you've been all day?" he asked, leaning his elbows on the windowsill.

"Here and there," I answered. There was a short silence, though when you're one of the people caught in it, it seems to last painfully longer.

"Oh," Edmund said, putting a small dent in the silence. I turned my head to him and studied his face. He only looked out the window at the sun, resting high in the sky at the top of the day.

"You know you're not much like your siblings at all," I observed. He scoffed.

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes. He had just torn a page out of my book of signature moves.

"I meant that as a compliment," I corrected, rolling my eyes back at him.

"Oh, well then thanks." This time he said it sincerely, almost forgetting to be sulking. After a few more minutes of silence (though this silence was more just a sort of thinking silence), he left, saying something about going to listen to the wireless and giving me permission to call him Ed. I danced for I think about three-quarters of an hour before changing for dinner. Dinner was… well why I don't just recap it.

"Hello," Lucy again greeted. This was returned just the same way as it had gone at lunch. I took my seat beside Edmund, Margaret and Ivy brought the food out (yes, it did have potatoes incorporated into it), and Margaret handed me a letter.

"Here you go, Dearie. It's a letter from Mrs. Elisabeth." Margaret told me, her round cheeks wearing a warm grin.

"Thanks." I took the letter and tore I open. I expected it to say something about we're both doing fine, and we hope you're safe. Instead, it said this:

_To my Dearest Daughter Marjorie,_

_Hello, Marjorie!__ How is Grandfather getting along? I hope you're both well. As for your father and I, it seems that I have some rather unfortunate news to tell you of. Your father has enlisted in the service. He departed almost a week ago, and I regret to tell you that I have not yet been told where he is to be stationed. Darling, I want you to understand that your father is not leaving. He is only doing the right thing by defending this great country of ours. As for an update on Ms. Elle…_

I didn't get around to reading the rest due to the fact that I immediately crumpled it up and excused myself. What if something happens to him? No more Father, that would be…no, I'm not even going to think about it. That last part is a lie especially since I stationed myself in front of the wireless with a pillow in my lap, sitting on the window sill, tossing the crumbled piece of paper from my left hand to my right.

"Hey," Peter coolly said, sitting on the foot of Lucy's bed. For a few minutes, the only noise that could be heard was the bombing reports on BBC.

"If you don't mind my asking," he timidly started. "are you alright? You certainly didn't seem alright when you excused yourself from dinner."

As a matter of fact, I'm not okay, and all I want to do right now is be home with _both_ my parents and away from you and this big, stupid, bloody house.

"I'm fine," I grudgingly replied. I _really _do not feel like talking about this and especially not with a stranger. No one, save the reporter said anything, and I thought that maybe I had gotten lucky, and Peter had decided to leave it.

"It's about your dad isn't it?" he asked, turning to me. I didn't dare look at him. If I did I feared I would've cried.

"Yep," I shortly replied. Compose yourself, Jo. You don't do things like this. Compose yourself. There will be absolutely no waterworks.

"I'm guessing either he's just now enlisted or he's injured," Peter continued. I continued tossing the crumbled ball back and forth before speaking.

"The first," I said quieter than before. Our conversation had reached the point where I really wished he would just_ shut up_.

"It's going to be okay. The war will end, and we'll all be back with our families again." He walked over to me and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning on the wall. I haphazardly scrambled down from the windowsill and wordlessly left. I didn't really plan where I was going to go. All I knew was that I wanted to be alone.

So here I stand at the windowsill, smoking my third cigarette of the day as the sunset paints the English sky flaming oranges and sultry peaches. How long am I going to be staying here?


End file.
